


We All Fall Down

by IvyMcAllister



Series: Delphi-verse [2]
Category: Demon Under Glass (2002), The Sentinel
Genre: Age Regression, Angst, Brainwashing, Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Trauma, Smarm, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyMcAllister/pseuds/IvyMcAllister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would help to know that in the first story in this AU (<i>Ashes, Ashes</i>), Jim & Blair were on the run from a government agency--the Delphi Group--that wants to use Jim as a lab rat and abuse his Sentinel abilities.  Now, they've been caught, and it’s not pretty.  </p>
<p>Slash (M/M), NO lemon, DUG (<i>Demon Under Glass</i>) crossover, although it's not obvious yet.  Shameless angst, h/c and a smattering of fluffy smarm.  To balance out the Caveman!Jim in <i>Ashes, Ashes</i>, this time we’re serving a main course of InControl!Blair with a side of Vulnerable!Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hawthorne](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hawthorne).



**{Present day}**

Jim's guts clenched and spasmed as the electricity flowed through his body. He'd long since lost count of the number of times they'd shocked him, not that it mattered--he didn't even know his own name anymore. 

The pain, the lights, the smell of his own excrement, blood and sweat, the sound of his choking cries…it was all too much. It was all he could do to keep breathing--to make his lungs fill with icy air that stung inside his chest like tiny needles. A dust particle settling on his skin made a sound like a bowling ball dropped on a manhole cover. 

It was over. He had no control now--his anchor was long gone. He'd lost it, somehow. No, that wasn't right.... They'd taken it from him. There had been. . . something. . . that had made him feel better--something that made the pain fade away. A sound? A soft, soothing, dependable sound--rhythmic and familiar--that made him relax without even trying. 

But they'd made it go away. They'd even taken him away from himself. They tried to remake him. He was absorbing this new identity, learning to respond to a new name--Number Three. A non-entity. 

Number Three was stubborn. 

Number Three was being punished. 

The next surge of electricity seemed to burn a path through his brain and out the top of his skull. The senses he'd been struggling to reign in surged outward, searching for and finding stimulation in the tiniest particles of matter--the flow of atoms, the revolutions of electrons--and a new agony replaced the burning. Hearing followed sight followed touch, inward and down until he was inside--until he was nothing but a billion nameless particles of unimaginable pain. 

He hoped, in his last coherent moments, that it would kill him. 

* * *

Blair was thrown into what could only be described as a 1950s operating theatre. Its sickly, pale, institutional yellow tiles crawled more than halfway up the walls and framed a large mirror that Blair knew had to be one way glass. He glanced down to see puce-painted cement under his hands, and noticed the large silver drain cap set in the middle of the slightly sloping floor. He shuddered at the implication.

Pushing himself slowly to his feet, Blair shook his head once to clear it. Once he was standing, he saw the table. A tall, naked, well muscled man was twitching slightly on the cold surface, held at four points by a cruel looking set of unpadded leather cuffs. 

Stuck fast, breath caught in his throat, Blair struggled to deny what his eyes were seeing. 

It was Jim. A visceral anger welled up, threatening to burst, but it was crushed immediately by waves of grief as he assessed Jim's condition.

Tremors were wracking the sturdy frame at uneven intervals, making him appear weaker than his build implied. Even in these miserable circumstances, he was an impressive figure. Determination screamed from every taut muscle. Jaw locked, teeth grinding, fists clenched, toes curling spasmodically with every tremor that ran through his wire-taut limbs, Jim appeared to be doing battle with some invisible enemy. And he appeared to be losing. 

Taking an unsteady step closer to Jim's side, Blair noted that there were no bedclothes. No pillow--not even a sheet. Jim was lying on cold stainless steel like a corpse on an embalming table. Channels molded into the shiny-clean surface waited to divert the flow of bodily fluids to a reservoir beneath. 

Blair found himself fighting the urge to be sick. 

He took in the fleet of small white scars that enmeshed the muscled chest and abdomen. So many IV lines and needles had been inserted in Jim's arms that he was bruised like a Haight Street junkie. A catheter snaked its way along the side of the table opposite Blair. Twin patches of scorched flesh marred Jim's temples, sure signs of electro-convulsive "therapy." There was also a stint protruding from Jim's left side, affixed to pale, sensitive skin with white surgical tape. Blair guessed it was for a feeding tube. 

_And feeding tubes are for people who can't eat,_ Blair thought dumbly. _Or won't._

An IV pierced the twitching, vulnerable flesh of the back of one of Jim's large hands. As he watched the clear liquid dripping slowly from the hanging plastic bag, Blair wondered how in the hell they'd gotten into this mess in the first place.

 

* * *

**{Three weeks earlier}**

The morning their three-month run ended, Blair had been paying a visit to a pre-law friend at Washington State University. He'd been calling in favors from everyone he could think of, trying to find a way to protect Jim from the men who were after them. Everyone was drawing a blank except a group calling themselves the Lone Gunmen. They'd mentioned rumors about an ongoing research project run by something called the Delphi Group, apparently intent on creating a stable of genetically-modified super-assassins. It was the only possibility he'd come across that made sense, but the utter lack of verifiable information made it a dead end. 

He'd put in a call to a well-connected friend, Jack Kelsoe, who had yet to find anything beyond some obscure, almost bizarre references to real horror-movie stuff; vampires, immortals, and general weirdness. 

He'd headed back to the truck where Jim was waiting for him, leaning against the driver's side door and looking around warily. 

"Dr. Sandburg?" 

The voice came from behind him. Turning, he'd had only seconds to call out to Jim before a sharp, stinging pain shot up his left arm. And after that, everything was a blur. 

He awakened perhaps twice, only to be knocked out again each time. He didn't remember seeing any sign of Jim. When he had finally been allowed to remain conscious, he was tied to a chair at a plain, rough wooden table. There was a man in what looked like black fatigues standing by the door to the small, grayish cinderblock cell. It was the front of his uniform that got Blair's attention--the middle of the guard's chest was emblazoned with a large, white cross. 

Seeing that Blair was awake, he'd opened the door a crack and spoke to someone outside, saying, "He's back. Where do you want him?"

After a second, the guard came close enough to untie him. It took only seconds, after which he stepped outside and shut the door. The lock clicked, and Blair was alone.

Nothing had changed after that. 

His bed consisted of a thin, grimy mattress and a scratchy Pullman-style blanket. A toilet and sink graced a rear corner. There were no windows, even in the door. 

Food was provided twice daily by a selection of silent, unsmiling, cross-sporting guards. None of them replied to Blair's constant demands to see Jim, and he almost gave up trying. He'd felt so guilty about it that, as an act of defiance, all he allowed himself to think about was Jim - where he was, what they were doing to him. He figured he would find out eventually, or he wouldn't have been kept alive to wonder at all. 

Before they'd been captured, they'd been running for almost three months and the stress had really begun to tell on both of them. It had started quietly enough--lots of stupid fights that left them both feeling guilty and embarrassed. After days of hardly speaking to one another beyond monosyllabic grunts, they'd begun to descend into the absolute silence that Blair knew from experience tended to herald an unpleasant confrontation--or an ugly breakup.

He'd wanted to talk about it, but Jim had clammed up on him as usual, slamming down the walls against Blair's gentle prodding as if it had been an all-out siege on his emotional privacy.

All this silence and brooding just wasn't Blair's style. He was a talker. He talked watching TV, he talked during sex, he talked in his sleep, he'd talk to anyone about anything. 

But Jim. . . Jim was stone. The quintessential strong, silent type. 

Blair had been privileged, once, to see what Jim was hiding under all that judiciously applied self-control. He'd held Jim tightly and rocked him, comforted him. And once Jim pulled himself together, Blair tactfully said no more about it. 

But he didn't forget. Jim had been so open, then. Vulnerable. Blair was needed, and he'd liked that feeling--he'd liked being able to help Jim. In his more self-aware moments, he even admitted to himself that he missed it. 

It wasn't that he wanted to see Jim suffer. He didn't want him to be in pain. He just wanted to be *inside* again, behind the walls. But he also knew Jim would have to be enduring intolerable agony--perhaps treading the edge of sanity--before he'd open up like that again.

Now, god only knew what kind of torture Jim was being put through. And there was nothing Blair could do but sit on his hands and pray.

It seemed to Blair that weeks had passed by the time one of the guards finally acknowledged him. Blair awoke from a doze to see the man standing over him where he'd been lying on his cot, and another lurked just outside the door. 

The guard looked at him impassively. 

"Get up."

Bleary-eyed, Blair did his best to scrabble to his feet. Maybe they were finally going to kill him. The thought aroused no emotion. Maybe, though, they were going to take him to Jim. _That_ got a reaction. His hands clenched into fists. He had to be patient. He had to wait and see.

The guard in the doorway was speaking into an intercom. Blair just made out the words, "transfer" and "responsibility" from the guard. 

Straining to hear the muffled reply, he caught only the phrase, "number three."

Blair was half-dragged, half-carried down a long, featureless hallway. After a seemingly endless descent in a freight elevator, they'd walked another dimly lit corridor before Blair was thrown into the room in which he now found himself.

And Jim.

He'd found Jim. 

And he was afraid that he was far, far too late.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**{The Present}**

Blair jumped when a cultured male voice crackled over an intercom somewhere from the mirrored side of the room. 

"Help him."

Blair looked around until he saw the small, old-fashioned intercom set in the wall to the left of the mirror. He stared into the glass defiantly despite the fact that his legs were still weak and his head still spinning from the drugs they'd been slipping in his food to keep him out of it. 

"Who the hell are you? What have you done to him," Blair yelled. 

"You *will* help him," the voice asserted.

"Like fuck! God, just look at him! You've already used him as your guinea pig, and I'll be damned before I help you make him into a goddamned killing machine! That is what this is, isn't it? The mysterious Delphi Project?"

The man didn't dignify Blair with a reply. "Help him, or you die."

"Fuck you."

A pause.

"Help him, or *he* dies."

Blair snapped his mouth shut, biting back the angry words that threatened to burst from him at any moment. They had him, and they knew it. No way was he going to let Jim die if he could help it. Even. . . Blair's gaze flicked back to Jim. Even if it might be doing him a favor…

"What the hell is wrong with him, anyway?" Blair ranted. "What did you do to him? How am I supposed to help him if I don't know what’s wrong?" 

"He was. . . assisting us. . . in our study of Sentinels, Dr. Sandburg. Unfortunately, he was. . . uncooperative. Your talents come highly recommended."

Blair was in shock. Sentinels. He'd said, "Sentinels." 

They knew. 

Jim had been right all along. They'd been watching him, following his research. 

It was a nightmare. 

"Give me. . . Just give me a minute with him. I need to figure out what I need. What *he* needs."

"As you wish, Dr. Sandburg."

Blair returned to Jim's side, taking in the pathetic sight and reaching unconsciously for Jim's hand. He stopped just short of a touch when he saw the muscles there tense even more as he got closer. 

_Oh, my god,_ Blair thought.

He rested his hand on the stark, icy stainless steel surface and shivered involuntarily at the cold. Blair hated to be cold. He frowned. Jim had to be freezing. Blair wanted to cover Jim with his shirts, but the sensation of the fabric would probably be worse than the cold and humiliation.

 _What kind of sick, insensitive fucks would keep someone like this?_

It was painfully obvious to Blair that Jim was on overload. He'd seen Jim like this before, and some of his more sensitive test subjects, as well. Once a sense was overstimulated, it could lead to a trance-like state--"zones", as Blair had come to call them--where nothing seemed to exist for them but the stimulus they found in that one sense. But Blair had never seen a reaction this extreme. For all he knew, even the subtle current of the room's stale, recycled air was too much for Jim in his current state. 

Not really expecting recognition, he leaned forward to look into Jim's wide, frightened eyes. His pupils were fully dilated, almost no blue visible around the dull, black centers. The harsh fluorescent light was probably boring into Jim's retinas like hot needles. Blair held his hand in front of Jim's eyes, shielding them from the glare for a moment. It wasn't dramatic, but there was a noticeable lessening of tension in his neck and shoulders. 

Next, Blair leaned down so he could whisper, Sentinel-soft, in Jim's ear. 

"I'm sorry, Jim. I love you."

Blair had barely heard his own words, but Jim moaned like Blair had slapped a boom box on his shoulder and cranked the volume up to "liquefy."

Blair bit back a gasp. This was so not good. He wanted to apologize, to soothe, but he knew it would only cause more pain, so he reluctantly did nothing.

What Blair really wanted was to yell at the bastard on the intercom some more, but thought better of it now that he knew it would be painful to Jim. Even talking was probably too much, but Blair knew it was necessary if he was going to try to get the things he needed to help pull Jim out of this. He refused to think about just how "this" had happened. Once he'd gotten Jim back, he would allow himself the luxury of rage.

He walked over to the intercom and spoke directly into the microphone next to the speaker, keeping his voice low.

"Are you listening to me? First of all, he needs a bed. A real bed. You know," he said sarcastically, "pillows, sheets, blankets? Lots of blankets. And turn up the damn heat! It's like a meat locker in here and he's freakin' naked! And turn the damned lights down while you're at it. You're blinding him! I'll need some water--warm, not cold. And a white noise generator. Earplugs will do if you can't find one. You got all that?"

"I believe most of those things can be arranged, Dr. Sandburg."

The lights in the room began to flicker off, one by one, until only two tubes glowed coldly above the door. 

"Someone will be with you shortly."

The dark settled over him like the ensuing silence and it was obvious that he had been dismissed. Blair turned back to the table again, willing himself to calm down. What he saw surprised him a bit. 

Jim had definitely relaxed even more than when he'd blocked the light with his hand. While Blair was puzzling over that, he noticed that the room now seemed quieter somehow. 

Of course! Blair refrained from slapping himself on the forehead. The buzzing of the lights! God, that must have been a nightmare for Jim. 

Blair studied Jim for another minute, fighting the urge to touch the sensitive skin. Yeah, he was definitely more relaxed. But Blair had only managed to remove a tiny portion of the unpleasant stimuli assaulting his Sentinel. There were still a few more things that had to go. 

Starting with the catheter. 

Blair sighed. He was quite sure he knew why Jim had been restrained, and he wasn't looking forward to having those fears confirmed. As much as it pained him to see Jim like this, he elected to leave the restraints in place until after the removal of the catheter and IV was over. There was no telling how he'd react, and Blair was as concerned for his own safety as he was for Jim's. Jim's Army experiences meant that he reacted with deadly force in extreme threat situations, and Blair was pretty damned sure that Jim was going to treat anything he could get his hands on as The Enemy first and ask questions later. If at all.

While Blair stood contemplating his strategy, Jim started to shake again. Blair didn't know what to do. The room had already warmed significantly since his little tirade about humane treatment, so it probably wasn't from cold. Frustrated and helpless, Blair ran a hand through his hair and tried not to pace.

A second later, he heard footsteps approaching.

When the door handle rattled, Jim arched his back, curling in on himself and making desperate gasping sounds of obvious panic. Two guards wheeled a reassuringly normal-looking hospital bed into the room. Several piles of folded sheets and blankets were on top of it, as was a plastic pitcher of softly steaming water, a paper cup, a washcloth and a towel. 

"Uh, guys?" Blair tried to get the guards' attention. "Hello? Can I get a nurse in here, or a doctor, or something? I can't do this myself! The catheter. . . ? Feeding tube thingy. . .? I mean. . . Uh, hello? Guys?"

Ignoring both prisoners, they left as soon as the bed was all the way inside the room. Once the door closed behind them, Jim gradually calmed, relaxing only enough to return to his previous state of hypertension.

"Great. Just great." Blair grumbled to himself. Now, not only did he have to remove the catheter--the feeding tube was NOT an option--he had to get Jim into the new bed as well. This was not going to be easy. Or pleasant.

Deciding that ignoring Jim would only make things worse, Blair moved to stand against the side of the table and spoke as softly as he could. He needed to warn Jim of what was coming, and figured that the discomfort of hearing his voice was a small price to pay. 

"I'm not sure if you understand me right now Jim, but it's me. Blair. I'm here to help you, Jim, understand? I know you don't want anybody touching you right now, big guy, but I have to do a couple of things before you start feeling better." 

"First thing's first, though. We need to get this stuff out of you." Blair gestured towards Jim's lower body with a tilt of his head. "I know it hurts right now, and it's going to hurt when I take it out, but I promise I'll be as careful as I can." He strove to keep his tone reassuring. "It'll be over before you know it." 

He wasn't sure where to start. Maybe it was a sympathetic reaction, but just the sight of the catheter was making Blair queasy, so he figured it should be the first thing to go. Suddenly acutely aware of the observation window, Blair swallowed his embarrassment at making this intimate contact. 

This is Jim, man. You love him. Who cares what these bastards are thinking? Help Jim. That's what matters. 

Taking a deep breath, he slipped the fingers of his left hand under Jim's flaccid penis. A gasp and groan answered his touch, muscles tensed and limbs pulled taut against the restraints. Blair hissed in sympathy, shushing and trying to soothe with his voice alone. 

"Shhhhhh. Hush, now. I'm sorry, Jim, I really am sorry, but I swear, we're almost done. Try to tune it out, buddy, okay? Dial it down, Jim. Do you remember the dials, man? Just try, Jim. Just try. Here goes..."

Blair had carefully grasped the thin tube where it protruded from Jim's body. Supporting the soft organ in one hand, Blair gently but firmly slid the tube from its sheath. The effect was dramatic but unsurprising.

Blair took a step back from the thrashing, howling figure and his hand moved unconsciously towards his own groin, and his eyes watered. 

There was something so primitive in the reaction--like an animal in a trap--that Blair found his eyes filling with tears beyond those of male sympathy pain. He hoped to god that Jim had been unconscious when they'd placed it. 

After a minute, the screams had subsided to harsh, rasping breaths. Blair could swear he'd seen Jim watching him for a second or two. Perhaps the pain had broken through his catatonia.

Blair decided it was time to try something nice and painless to make up for the hurt he'd caused his lover. 

"I'm sorry, man. So, so sorry. Let's just let you rest up for a few, huh?" Blair had gotten as close to the table as he could without any more touching. 

He kept his voice soft, but intelligible. "Hey, man. Just a little test question for you, okay? We'll start off easy. What's your name?" 

Jim's blue eyes continued to follow him. "Th. . . thhh. . . "

"Here," Blair filled the paper cup from the basin and held it to Jim's lips. "Drink this."

Allowing a few drops of water fell onto Jim's tongue, Blair waited to see if there would be an adverse reaction. 

A grimace followed, but nothing more.

Blair allowed Jim a few small sips of water before withdrawing the cup.

"So, want to try this again? I'm Blair, remember? Blair. And you are…?"

"Th…three."

Blair blinked.

"Um, okay. I guess you're not too with it yet, man. That's okay, though. No problem. We'll just call you Jim. How's that? Jim. Sound familiar, buddy?" Blair smiled to hide his concern over the big man's obvious disorientation. 

Jim lay there, looking sad and puzzled.

Well, the IV still had to go, so Blair decided to start removing the tape that held it in place. He kept up a steady stream of quiet, soothing chatter as he worked, talking about nothing in particular and trying not to notice every twitch of Jim's abdominals as he worked the tape free of his unfortunately hairy arm. 

_Too bad his arms aren't as smooth as his chest_ , Blair mused.

Finally, tape separated from sensitive flesh, Blair grasped the tubing behind the IV needle, willing his hand not to shake. He'd caused enough pain already.

"Alright, big guy. We're going to get rid of this thing now. Last time I'm gonna hurt you, I promise." 

Jim was starting to twitch again, and his breathing was uneven and harsh. Blair felt like shit. But it had to be done. Once it was out, he would see about getting Jim some real food. That might encourage their captors to allow removal of the offensive feeding tube.

"Here goes, now. It'll be all over in just a second. This won't hurt half as much as the last time, I promise. On three, okay? One. . . Two. . . Three."

On three, Blair pulled the needle smoothly from the vein on the back of Jim's hand. He was surprised to get no real reaction. Just a couple panting breaths and a soft moan. That was a good thing, but Blair didn't want to make too much of it. 

"Come on, Jim. Let's get you into a *real* bed, buddy. Would you like that?" Bustling around like a mother hen, Blair dressed the new bed quickly and rolled it up next to the hideous table. 

"Right. Here's the fun part. I need you to move over, Jim. Just scoot over onto this nice new bed. Look." Blair ran his hand over the blankets in appreciative invitation. "Soft, huh? Not like this." Blair knocked gently on the stainless steel monstrosity.

Jim looked sadly--almost wistfully--at the new bed. 

"Come on, man. It's really soft. All you have to do is. . . Oh, shit." Blair looked instantly contrite. "I'm sorry, Jim. I forgot about those!" He went to work unbuckling the restraints immediately, feeling very foolish.

Once he'd finished freeing Jim, he smiled again, trying to put as much enthusiasm in his voice as possible. "Now, lets give it another try, shall we? Here we go, man, just an inch at a time," he coaxed. "I know you can do it. Come on, just like that. . ."

Blair continued to coax and cajole Jim onto the newly-made bed. Seeing the look of relief and pleasure in Jim's eyes when he let himself sink into the yielding surface made it all worthwhile.

As soon as Jim was clear of it, Blair shoved the vacated table into the far corner of the room. He then pushed Jim's new bed as far from the observation window as possible, shielding Jim from view with his own body as much as possible while he pulled the covers up over the shivering man. 

"There we go, Jim. How's that? Nice and soft, right? Better?" Blair waited while Jim lay in the bed, taking it all in. A tear escaped and rolled down Jim's cheek. Blair barely heard the whispered, "Why?"

Blair shook his head sadly. "I dunno, man. To study you, sure, but I don't know why they've kept you like this."

Jim gazed at Blair with almost infinite sadness. "Why," he asked again, more emphatically. Blair noticed Jim's hand brushing against the slightly scratchy, institutional sheets like they were silk. He felt a rush of heat and anger welling up inside him, and he crushed it immediately. He didn't want Jim to think it was directed at him. He tried for a casual tone. 

"Why the bed, you mean? Jeez, man. Nobody should have to spend even five minutes on that other thing. You were hurting. I wanted to stop the hurt, if I could." Blair smiled. "Did I? Help, that is?"

"Don't deserve it." Jim's breathing was becoming slower…steadier now, and Blair realized he was probably falling asleep. "Let them take. . . Hurt. . ." 

"Jim? Jim, stay with me for a minute, man. Are you hungry? I can try to get you some food. Real food. Would you like that?"

Jim's eyes fluttered open for a second, watery blue eyes revealing themselves for just a second. 

"Cookie," came the distinct whisper.

Blair raised an eyebrow and smiled involuntarily. "Cookie, Jim? You want cookies?" 

"Good," Jim mumbled. 

"Yeah, cookies are good, no argument from me. We'll try to get you some cookies, okay? Just rest now, Jim. Relax. You're okay. Nice soft bed, plenty of blankets." Blair fussed with them for a second, pulling them up more snugly around Jim's shoulders. 

A small, contented sigh rewarded the gesture, and Blair was suddenly overwhelmed with feelings of protectiveness. 

Immediately, a wave of guilt pushed those feelings aside and sat on them. _You wanted this, man_ , he berated himself. You wanted Jim vulnerable. Needy. And you knew what it would take to make it happen. Well, you got your wish. Jim needs you. Don't you feel better?

He shook it off, trying to squish the negative self-talk with a mantra. 

On a more positive note, Jim's senses seemed to have leveled out, for whatever reason. Perhaps all that was necessary was the removal of the unpleasant stimulation. Or maybe, he just needed a break from what had obviously been a nightmare of discomfort for someone like Jim. His senses were still new--untrained. Jim had gained a small measure of control after three months, but he had sill relied on Blair to coach him through situations with intense input.

This sucks, he thought as he watched Jim sleep. _Poor Jim._ He snorted. _Or whoever the hell he thinks he is now._

The first real Sentinel Blair had ever encountered, and it had to end like this… Whatever the Delphi people had done, it had shredded Jim Ellison and left this husk in his stead. Blair would have given anything to have the old, abrasive, stone-faced Jim Ellison back again. The cold rage that had been fueling Blair since he'd been thrown into this wretched room now threatened to engulf him. 

_No time for that, buddy boy,_ Blair scolded himself. _Gotta get Jim here some food._ He smiled a bit. _Cookies._

Blair approached the intercom once more. "Hey! Anybody in there? Hello. . ."

"Dr. Sandburg. Making progress, I see. Do you require anything?" The cultured voice was as calm as ever.

"Yeah. Some food. Something like plain mashed potatoes, white rice, or a protein shake. Vanilla or chocolate. Maybe some milk." Blair heard his voice crack a bit and winced, but he continued. "And cookies."

There was the barest hint of a pause before the intercom crackled to life again. 

"Very well."

Blair returned to Jim's bedside, a bit surprised. 'Very well,' huh? This was all too strange. 

He'd been watching Jim sleep for what seemed like ages when the bigger man awoke suddenly, a harsh cry escaping his lips. Blair watched helplessly as Jim tried to wedge himself as far into the corner where the bed met the wall as he could, covering his head with the blankets like a frightened child.

For the first time since they'd been reunited, Blair tried to touch Jim in a less-than-clinical way. Reaching out a hand, palm up, he spoke softly, soothingly. 

"Jim? Jim, what's wrong? Were you having a nightmare? It's all over now, man, you're okay. Come on, come here, Jim, it's alright now. . ."

Jim's terror only seemed to increase until Blair heard the door open and a rolling tray table tray was shoved inside. The door was shut again, and Jim immediately began to relax, shaking as the adrenaline left his system.

It had to be that he was hearing the guards when they were approaching the room. And it scared him to death. Whatever they had done to him, it must have been horrible for him to react like this. 

"It's okay, Jim. They're gone now, it's okay," Blair soothed. He laid his hand on Jim's arm and rubbed very, very gently. "Cookies, Jim. I bet they brought cookies." 

Jim now peered at Blair from under the blanket.

Blair picked up the tray and checked over the contents. A Styrofoam plate contained mashed potatoes, creamed corn and what looked like grits. There were two small cartons of milk, and there, in the back left corner, the familiar, gaily decorated box that could mean only one thing. Animal crackers.

Blair picked the box up by the flimsy white string handle. 

"Hey, Jim." He almost grinned. "Check it out, buddy. Look what you got in your lunch, big guy. Aren't they great? I used to love these when I was a kid."

Blair dangled the box of treats in front of the cave-like opening in the blankets. Jim watched suspiciously, but his eyes kept darting to the fascinating red cardboard box.

Finally, after some coaxing, Jim emerged from his den and claimed the treat.

"Alright, Jim," Blair praised. "Here you go, buddy. Have at 'em." He handed Jim the box and sat carefully on the edge of the bed to watch Jim enjoy the goodies.

Instead of opening the box, Jim sat and stared at it, turning it over and over in his hands and sniffing it. He shook it next, and seemed startled at the rattling sound.

Blair frowned. Maybe Jim was more messed up than he'd thought. This was too weird. It was like he'd never even seen the things before.

An ugly thought began to take shape in the back of Blair's mind. 

This Jim was awed by a creature comfort as basic as a bed. Acted like he'd never seen a box of animal crackers. He'd obviously had electroshock, was covered in scars… 

Shit. 

Shit! Blair wondered how long it had taken the bastards to regress Jim to this state. It wasn't unheard of for trauma victims to regress to a childlike state--one in which they could feel that they weren't responsible for their situation. It wasn't usually permanent--just a protective mechanism, but there was no telling how a Sentinel who felt they had failed to protect their tribe--or their guide--would react. That kind of guilt, combined with the torture Jim had obviously been subjected to could have done irreparable damage. Blair couldn't ignore the possibility that Jim might never remember anything before they'd been abducted. 

Blair swallowed, remembering Jim's odd response when asked his name. "Three." 

_Oh, shit._

_*Man, they've freakin' brainwashed him! The bastards have been reprogramming him all this time--probably programming him to kill, like those Lone Gunmen guys were talking about. The perfect assassin--low risk of failure and if he does screw up, there's no identity to torture out of him if he's captured. And if they play their cards right, he'll never even know who's pulling his strings…_

For someone like Jim--someone who prized his morality and independence above all else--that would undoubtedly be Hell.

A wave of sympathy washed over Blair. He saw Jim looking forlorn, still puzzling over the cookies. No doubt he could smell them, but in his present condition he just wasn't sure how to get to them.

"Here, man. Let me help you with those, okay?" Blair took the box from Jim and started opening it. It was glued pretty tightly, and as he struggled with the tab, he glanced at his silent companion. 

Jim was looking at Blair like he'd just run over Jim's puppy.

Shit, shit, *shit*. 

Blair ripped the package open in record time and hastily handed them back to Jim. 

"Hey, it's alright. I was just helping, Jim, honest. See? The cookies were just hiding from you, man, that's all." He patted Jim's arm reassuringly. "Go ahead." Blair inclined his head towards the treats. "Look inside."

Jim clutched the box to his chest as soon as Blair returned it. He now looked down and saw the opening Blair had created. Sniffing again, Jim pulled the sides of the box apart to reveal the small golden cookies. A smile lit up his face, and he promptly turned the box upside down on his blanketed lap and started munching happily on a camel.

Watching Jim eating made Blair realize that he was pretty hungry, too. Picking up the tray from where he'd set it on the bed, Blair reached for a fork but found only two strange looking cardboard spoons. They were obviously either expected to share this feast, or the extra was for when the first one got too soggy to use.

He sighed. They were certainly determined not to let them get their hands on a potential weapon. 

"Hey, Jim. I'm just going to help myself to some of this stuff, okay? But let's get your milk open first. You want some milk with your cookies, right?"

Blair popped open the spouts on both cartons, setting one on the corner of the tray closest to Jim. 

"Here you go, big guy. Drink up."

Jim took the carton carefully from the tray and drank. *Well,* Blair noted, *he certainly knows about milk cartons.*

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Jim lay down and curled up under the blankets again, this time so that he could examine each animal more closely before obviously puzzling over what part of its body to eat first. It was delightfully silly and childlike, and so out of place in this cold, sterile place that Blair's heart ached.

Blair finished the milk, but ate less than half of everything on the plate. When he turned to Jim to try to persuade him to eat a bit, he saw that he was already asleep, clutching a cookie in one large hand.

Blair stood up from Jim's bedside and looked around the room. Suddenly, he was exhausted but he wasn't sure if he should sleep with Jim in his current state. The possibility of observers daunted him, as well, but since Jim didn't even remember him--hell, Jim didn't even remember Jim--he didn't think they'd be getting an eyeful any time soon. His eyelids were drooping with exhaustion as he eyed Jim, curled up on his new bed. 

He sighed, and it turned into a yawn. There was nowhere else for him to sleep except that goddamned autopsy table or the floor, and that was just *not* an option. 

Jim was curled up at the very top of the bed, head not quite on the thin pillow. Despite Jim's size, there was more than enough room for both of them. Now tired beyond reason, Blair made a tremendous effort to put the tray on the floor before curling up at the foot of the bed. As he surrendered to sleep, it didn't occur to him that they'd been drugged.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

He awoke feeling stiff, sore and much groggier than was normal for him; and he was notoriously slow to awaken on the best of days.

He glanced up to check on Jim and was alarmed to find the bed empty.

He struggled to sit up, yelling as soon as enough air found his lungs. 

"Where is he? Where the hell did you take him, you bastards! Where's Jim? If you hurt him again, I swear to God, I'll kill you! Haven't you done enough to him already?" 

Blair was pacing the small room, looking around in the hope of finding something to break the mirror with so he could get at the source of the smug voice behind the one-way glass and choke the shit out of him.

Right on cue, the Smug One spoke. "He's on his way back to you now, Dr. Sandburg. We took this opportunity to remove the feeding tube, as you desired. I assure you, he is unharmed."

No sooner had the voice stopped than the door opened and the offensive stainless steel table was wheeled in with Jim--again restrained--lying naked upon it.

Blair moved to the table as quickly as he could, noticing the large bandage on Jim's left side and the evenness of his breathing. _At least they did it while he was unconscious_ , Blair thought, relieved that Jim had been spared any more pain. 

Blair wondered how he was going to get Jim back on the bed. He didn't want him waking up on that godawful table again, but he wasn't sure he was going to be able to move the bigger man. Unconscious, he was a dead weight.

It was a moot point.

The guards who had wheeled the table in moved to Jim's sides and released the restraints. Lifting Jim up by arms and legs, they deposited him without ceremony on the bed. They stopped only to collect the tray from the floor, leaving another in its place, and to deposit a commode in the middle of the room. A roll of toilet paper was placed in the basin, and the men were gone.

Blair wasted no time getting Jim covered up, rescuing as many of the uneaten cookies as he could. He glanced at the new tray of food to find another box of animal crackers had been provided. Good. The poor guy was going to be hurting again, so at least there was something to take a bit of the sting away.

Blair watched Jim sleep for awhile, blotting the moist forehead lightly with a dry washcloth. He still wasn't sure why Jim had come out of the zone he'd been in earlier. The pain of removing the catheter could have done it, but logic said it could have had the opposite effect, as well. Blair didn't know much about the Guide side of the Sentinel thing, but he did know that Sentinels were meant to respond to their Guides. If he was Jim's real Guide, it could have been his presence, combined with the removal of unpleasant stimuli, that made Jim to fell safe enough to surface. 

Jim stirred then, eyes scrunching shut more tightly for a second before opening to focus awkwardly on Blair's face hovering nearby.

"Hey, Jim." Blair said quietly. He smiled when Jim seemed to recognize him and smiled even more when he noticed Jim's worried eyes casting about the bed, searching.

"Looking for these?" Blair held up the handful of cookies he'd rescued, relishing the sleepy look of contentment on Jim's face. "Here you go, buddy." Blair turned Jim's hand over, placed the four cookies there and carefully closed Jim's fingers around them. 

"All yours, man. I saved them for you."

Jim let his eyes close again, but Blair had seen his surprise and happiness when he realized that Blair had saved his treats. 

Sighing, Blair let his hand rest lightly on Jim's forearm. He had no idea how long Jim would sleep, but Blair felt certain *he* wouldn't be able to. He remained seated on the side of Jim's bed, just enjoying the contact with another human being.

* * *

When Jim awoke again, Blair had drifted off and was lying across Jim's lower legs. He watched Blair sleep for a moment before tentatively touching a single lock of Blair's very unwashed hair. Jim couldn’t remember seeing hair that long before. . .could he? People had short hair like his own.

"Blair." He remembered the man's name was Blair. Jim frowned. Blair looked very fami. . . famili. . . Family! Jim beamed. That was it. Blair was family. Jim said the name again softly, trying it out, playing with the sounds. "Buh. . . laaay. . . errrrr." 

He smiled. He didn't know why Blair was being nice to him, but he liked it. And he liked that Blair had saved his cookies. Ignoring the pain in his side, he picked up a monkey and munched on it, happily playing with his new family's fascinating hair.

* * *

Blair heard someone talking… saying his name. He opened his eyes and realized he'd fallen asleep after all, and he was now lying on Jim's legs.

"Blair?" 

Blair sat up with a start. 

"Jim? Jim, was that you, man?"

Jim was looking quite queasy. One hand was wrapped protectively around his stomach, the other twisting fitfully at the sheets.

"Blair?" The same pained, questioning tone.

"What's wrong, buddy? Does your stomach hurt?" Blair was stroking the soft hair on the side of Jim's head. He'd figure out when Jim had remembered his name later. "It'll be okay, Jim. It'll only hurt for a while, and then you'll feel *way* better." 

He glanced at the bed near Jim's anxious hand. 

There was a distinct absence of cookies.

 _Oh, shit._

Blair tried for his kindest tone. "Jim, buddy, did you eat your cookies?"

At the hesitant, guilty nod, Blair felt the iron grip of a nauseating guilt of his own. Jim had been sedated for the removal of the feeding tube port. *Sedated, Sandburg, you idiot!* And anesthesia and food don't mix. This would be very, very unpleasant for Jim if Blair didn't find a way to fix it. Puking while there's a hole in your guts was *not* a good time.

Jim was still looking supremely nauseous and guilty, clutching his stomach and whimpering a bit when Blair tried to touch. 

"Jim, it's okay. You didn't do anything wrong. They were your cookies, and you were allowed to eat them." Blair tried to think of how to phrase what he needed to say. "But they had to make you sleep to take the tube out, and sometimes that can make people feel sick. You do feel sick, right Jim?"

Another unhappy nod.

"Alright, man. It's okay. We'll work it out, I promise. I want you to relax for me, Jim. That's right. . ."

Blair perched on the side of the bed while Jim scooted painfully onto his back. It looked like he wanted to curl up again, but Blair wasn't sure how that would go over.

"Good, that's good, right there. Now, I want you to picture your dials, okay? Can you do that for me, Jim?"

Jim looked confused.

"The dials, Jim, remember? We'd made a dial for each of your senses. Can you picture them for me?"

Jim looked sick, sad and even more puzzled than before.

"It's okay," Blair was quick to reassure. "Don't worry about it." Blair was staring to realize just how extreme Jim's regression was. The dial trick, though relatively new, had always worked before. He wasn't sure how he was going to manage now.

After pondering the situation for a moment, all the while gently rubbing the side of Jim's stomach that wasn't hurting, Blair came up with an alternative.

"Okay, Jim. We're going to play a game. A really easy game that will make the hurt go away. How does that sound?'

Jim brightened just a bit, looking wide-eyed at Blair.

"Yeah, buddy. A game. Just you and me." After ruffling the hair on Jim's head, Blair felt himself smiling at the comfort level that had come back to them so quickly, despite the dire circumstances. "Now, here's what we do. . ."

Blair uncovered Jim's left arm, the one that was nearest to him, and turned it to lay palm up. He then placed the tip of his index finger on the soft skin on the inside of Jim's arm, but not close enough to Jim's armpit to tickle.

"Are you ready, Jim?"

"Mmmhmmm." 

Blair smiled encouragingly. "Okay, here's what you need to do. I'm going to run my finger down your arm, like this. . ." 

He demonstrated by tracing his finger lightly down Jim's arm, eliciting a reluctant giggle. A giggle! Blair was delighted. 

"Your job is the easy part because you just need to lie still and concentrate for me. Now, while I'm touching your arm, you're going to think about how your stomach feels, okay? Up high on your arm, up here," Blair tapped his starting point gently, "is how you feel right now. Down here," he tapped the center of Jim's palm, "is feeling really good and not sick at all--nothing hurting, okay? So, when I move my finger down your arm, you're going to imagine yourself feeling better and better. The closer my finger gets to here," Blair tapped Jim's palm again, "the better you'll feel. And when get to the bottom, your stomach won't hurt anymore."

Jim gazed at him trustingly.

Blair put his finger back at the top of Jim's arm. 

"You got that, Jim? Ready?" 

Jim nodded, already concentrating on Blair's finger. 

"Alright, here we go."

As Blair traced slowly down Jim's arm, he kept up a steady stream of encouragement. "That's it, you're feeling better all the time now, Jim. Closer and closer. . . Better and better. . . Follow where my finger goes and notice how good you feel, Jim, that's it. . ."

It took almost a minute to reach Jim's palm. When he did, Blair stopped and took Jim's hand in his own, squeezing gently. "All done, big guy." Blair smiled. "How do you feel?"

A snore greeted his question, and Blair let himself relax. This was a very good thing. He was relieved to have been able to keep Jim from throwing up. After whatever they'd done to remove the tube, it would have been hell for the wounded sentinel.

"Very impressive, Mr. Sandburg."

Blair sighed. _This idiot again,_ he growled to himself. _Wonderful._

"You have accomplished more in these few hours than we were able to do in a week. You will tell us how you managed it, of course."

"Of course," Blair hissed through clenched teeth. "You really want to know? You think I have this great fucking insight or something? Some trick? Fuck that. It's simple. I treated him like a human being. Like I care. Like he matters. Which I do and he does, by the way."

Blair glanced quickly at Jim to make sure he was still sleeping. Reassured that he hadn't awakened him, Blair continued his tirade.

"And another thing! What the hell did you do to him? Where did all those scars come from, and while we're at it, you can tell me why the hell he can't even open a goddamned box of animal crackers!" 

"Dr. Sandburg. Abuse will get you nowhere. You will tell us what we need to know, and you will get Number Three to. . . perform for us, or your life, and his, will be forfeit. Do you understand?"

There was really nothing he could do. No matter how he'd come to be here, Jim was an innocent now. And Blair _had_ to take care of him. 

He had to.

Swallowing his anger, he schooled his voice to show only resignation and defeat. 

"Yes. I understand."

"Good. You have precisely two weeks to get Number Three. . ."

"Jim." Blair's temper flared. "His name is Jim." 

The voice didn't miss a beat.

". . .in sufficient shape to perform a task for us, and then you will both be allowed to rest. Is there anything you require?"

"Clothes." He hadn't thought about it much when Jim was non-functional, but now, he knew the man needed to preserve whatever shreds he had left of his dignity. "Jim needs some clothes. Sweats would be good. And soft socks, nothing cleaned with bleach, no fabric softeners, no artificial fibers."

"As you require, Dr. Sandburg."

The intercom clicked off, leaving the room quiet once again. Blair listened to Jim's breathing for a minute before remembering that things he asked for usually arrived very soon after the request was made. Jim was going to wake up in terror, and Blair needed to be ready to help him deal with it.

* * *

Sure enough, no more than fifteen minutes went by before Jim's peaceful slumber was punctuated by a gasp and thrashing of limbs. Pulling the blankets over his head again, Jim cowered in his hiding place. 

Unfortunately, Blair hadn’t come up with anything that didn’t involve platitudes. Telling Jim that there was nothing to worry about wasn't going to do the guy any favors. After all, someone could come through that door at any time, drag Jim away and put him through any manner of horrors. Getting him to relax his guard would be more than counter productive--it would be a lie, and Blair didn't want that between them. 

But Jim also needed to believe that Blair was looking out for him now, and that Blair wouldn't let anyone hurt him without a fight. Since he was reasonably certain that this impending visit was to leave the clothing he'd requested, he felt justified in trying to soothe Jim out of his panicked state.

Blair scooted close to the lump huddled under the covers and wrapped a protective arm around his friend. 

"Jim, man, it's just some guys coming in with some clothes for you, buddy. Just some clothes. Nobody's gonna hurt you this time, I promise." He continued to speak soothingly for a minute more, and then the door was opened, a pile of clothing was deposited on the floor, and the door closed again. 

Jim peeked out at Blair as soon as the door clicked shut. "Gone?"

Blair's arm still rested on Jim's back, and he hugged Jim to him, careful of the bigger man's injury. 

"Yeah, they're gone, Jim. And look." 

He got up, picked up the folded gray sweatshirt, sat back down at Jim's side and held up the top for Jim to see. 

"For you." 

He lifted the front of the shirt to show the fleecy backing, rubbing it to illustrate. 

"Soft. See? Want to put them on, Jim?"

Jim didn't look thrilled at the prospect of putting on the clothes, but Blair was persistent and persuasive. When Jim continued to resist his coaxing, Blair simply removed his pullover and slipped the generously sized sweatshirt over his head. Snuggling into the fleecy shirt with an exaggerated wriggle, Blair wrapped his arms around himself and rubbed up and down. 

"Mmmmmm. Wow, Jim. It's reeeeeeeeally soooooft," Blair sing-songed. "Are you suuuuurrrre you don't want to try it on? Just for a minute? You don’t have to wear it if you don't want to."

Jim was still eying the shirt suspiciously, but once he'd seen Blair try it on he was almost eager. Once they'd slipped it over Jim's head and wrestled his arms in place Jim was pretty pleased with himself and more than happy to try the bottoms. 

Despite his impressive musculature, it was obvious that Jim hadn't stood on his own in some time. His legs wobbled dangerously when Blair helped him to slide them off the side of the bed and onto the floor. Once the pants were on, though, Blair got Jim settled back onto the bed and helped him put on the socks he'd found folded in the pants. There was no underwear, but Blair could live with that. 

He stood back and made a show of appreciating Jim's new clothing. 

"Wow! Hey, Jim, I have to tell you, buddy--you're looking pretty sharp." 

Jim beamed.

Blair beamed.

For the first time since he'd seen Jim on that table, Blair thought that maybe, just maybe, they could get through this.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Blair spent much of the next two weeks sleeping, eating and cajoling Jim into telling him about the things that he'd experienced since they'd been captured. Jim stubbornly refused to answer any of Blair's questions about anything that had been done to him. 

His vocabulary improved dramatically, however, and his reluctance to speak only manifested itself when someone other than Blair was in the room. He still had to fight the urge to hide when he heard anyone approaching, but there was nothing Blair had been able to do about it except hold him and tell him they'd be okay. 

In between talking and resting, Blair helped Jim walk around the room so he could regain some of the strength in his legs. They also worked on the alternate dial method for Jim to control his senses. 

Jim was making great strides, but Blair still had to remind himself from time to time that Jim wasn't the man he remembered. He sometimes found himself expecting too much from Jim, and then they both became frustrated.

They slept together purely for comfort now, since Jim was in no mental state to enjoy (or even remember) the intimacy they’d enjoyed before their capture. Blair had started out sleeping curled up at the foot of the bed, but eventually they resumed their old habit of sleeping side by side, only now it was Blair who curled up behind Jim, his arm wrapped protectively around the larger man. 

For his part, Jim didn't seem to mind the closeness. In fact, he actively sought reasons to touch Blair, and Blair was not about to deny him. Jim was starved for any kind of contact. Non-painful contact, Blair reminded himself. Anything Blair did that brought them together seemed to make Jim happy.

And in addition to all this, Blair worried. He had to make sure they weren't separated again--had to make sure their captors knew that each was useless without the other.

* * *

Their two weeks passed all too quickly, and Blair awoke to find Jim shaking and trying not to hide his face in Blair's hair. Someone was coming. 

"Jim? Jim, listen to me, okay? Remember what we talked about? We knew something was gonna happen soon, right? And even if they do take you away, you have a name again. Jim Ellison. You're somebody. They can't take that from you this time. I won't let them. And you know how to control your senses again. You don't need me to do it for you anymore, Jim. Just imagine my finger on your arm and you'll be okay. All right? Okay, buddy?"

Jim pulled himself away from Blair with obvious difficulty. 

A week ago, Blair thought with satisfaction, they'd have had to pry Jim off him like a barnacle off a boat. 

"I'm…okay." Jim squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply like Blair had taught him. After a second, he regained his composure enough to feel embarrassed for his reaction. 

He looked down at the blanket, picking at the nubby pills of wool. 

"Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for, man." Blair hugged his friend. "I'm scared too. But we'll be okay. We need each other, and they know it. We'll be okay." 

Blair continued to hold onto Jim until the door was opened and six men in blue jumpsuits appeared. All were armed. Two approached the bed and reached for Jim. Now, it was Blair who wasn't about to let go, but Jim slowly pulled away from Blair and slid his feet onto the cold tile floor.

"See ya, Sandburg."

*Wow. That was practically the Sermon on the Mount for Jim, lately.* Blair was pleased at the old familiarity, but he didn't let it show. 

"Soon, man. You'll be back before you know it." Blair tried to sound as confident as possible for a powerless man facing the unknown. 

For his part, Jim was obviously terrified, but he let himself be lead away. He looked back at Blair just as the door closed behind him.

The second it shut, Blair was at the intercom. "Where are they taking him? What are you going to do with him?"

Silence.

"Answer me, dammit! Where are you taking Jim?"

"He'll be back, Dr. Sandburg. He just needs a bit of…educating…before your first exercise." A pregnant pause. "As you do."

The door opened as if on cue and two men carrying a chair entered. Blair was tossed into it like a rag doll and told to sit still.

A television was rolled in, the lights went off and the screen lit up to reveal the face of a thin, dark-haired man with a moustache and green eyes.

"Your target, Dr. Sandburg."

* * *

It felt like hours had gone by before the lights came on and Blair was alone in the room again. He had been forced to memorize what felt like reams of data about a man named Simon Molinar. He rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. He knew more about the man now than he knew about his own mother. 

He had to. 

He had to because Jim was supposed to find Simon Molinar and bring him back to the Delphi group, and it was Blair's job to make sure he did. Ah, but the catch. . . Blair shook his head in disbelief. The catch was a real doosie. Simon Molinar was, apparently, a vampire. Suddenly, the ridiculous horror-movie shit that Kelsoe had talked about didn't seem so far-fetched.

The sound of a key in the door startled Blair. He'd gotten used to Jim's early warning of anyone approaching their room.

The door opened and Jim was tossed inside to land awkwardly on the floor at Blair's feet.

"Jim!" Blair knelt at Jim's side, turning him over slowly and carefully. "Jim, it's okay. You're back. You're back with me now and everything's alright." 

Jim's eyes were bloodshot, and he was sporting a few bruises on his face. He was also clutching his stomach, and Blair wondered if the area where the feeding tube had been removed had been a target for his tormentors.

"Let me see, Jim. Come on," Blair coaxed. "Let me see your stomach, okay? I just want to see what hurts."

Jim relaxed his grip on himself enough to let Blair lift his sweatshirt and examine the surgical site. It had almost healed in the past couple days, and wasn't bleeding. Jim's ribs, however, were a veritable kaleidoscope of greens, yellows, purples and blues. 

"I'm sorry, Jim. I know it hurts. Why don't we get you into bed, okay?" 

Jim didn't hesitate, just started to pull himself to his feet while Blair steadied him. He let Blair lead him to the bed and settled himself on the soft mattress. Blair started to bend down to get Jim some animal crackers but was stopped by Jim's hand on his arm. 

"What is it, Jim?"

Jim had turned his left arm over, and his sleeve was pushed up. Never breaking eye contact, he brought Blair's finger to rest on the inside of his upper arm.

"Oh, I gotcha. You need a little help turning it down. No problem." Blair smiled at his friend, leaning over to kiss the sweaty forehead before tracing the now familiar path down Jim's arm. The other lay quietly, concentrating. 

When the exercise was finished, Blair kissed Jim's forehead again. Instead of passively accepting the comfort, Jim took Blair's hand in his own and lifted it to his cheek, kissing the palm and folding Blair's fingers over the now-precious spot. Jim smiled weakly. "I'm alright now, Sandburg. Nothing a morphine drip won't cure." 

A goofy grin spread over Blair's face. He'd been afraid that Jim would be reduced, once more, to walking wounded. Thankfully, if that little display was any indication, Jim seemed to be none the worse for wear after this last experience. Psychologically, anyway. Physically, there didn't seem to be any permanent damage, but he'd be sore for at least a couple weeks. Verbally, he actually seemed better. 

While Blair was pondering, Jim had snagged a box of animal crackers and was munching away in silence, watching as Blair paced the length of the room for the twentieth time.

"You need a nickname," Jim announced as if it were any other day and they were anywhere but locked in the Operating Room at the Center of the Earth. 

"What's that, Jim? Sorry--I was zoning there for a minute."

"A nickname, Sandburg."

"Um… Okay. Whatever you say, big guy."

"There! See? You call me 'big guy' and 'buddy' and stuff all the time. I want to call you something, too." He looked at Blair questioningly. "What did I call you…you know. Before…" He waved a hand to indicate their current circumstances. 

Blair realized that there were still huge gaps in Jim's memory. Heck, he might never remember some of it, Blair reminded himself sadly. He certainly seemed to have forgotten that they'd been lovers. 

"Well, there was, 'Chief,'" Blair supplied helpfully. "You called me that a lot. And 'Einstein.' And ‘Hairboy.’ And 'Darwin.' And… and…" Blair fortified himself with a deep, cleansing breath before he supplied one more. "And you called me your 'little guppy'." 

Jim nodded, processing. "Why did I call you that, Chief?" No anger. Just curiosity.

"It's kind of complicated, man. See… We… Before this shit came down, Jim, we were very close."

"Just how close are we talking about here, Darwin?"

Blair frowned. Jim wasn't looking at him--he just sat there, impassively appreciating the finer points of animal cracker box construction. 

"Real close, Jim. Closer than you'd probably care to remember."

"And just why wouldn't I want to remember something like that, Einstein?"

Blair blushed. He wasn't. He couldn't be. Was Jim… was he toying with him?

"Jim, man, cut it out! If you've remembered something, tell me already!"

Jim grinned. "I never forgot, Chief. At least, I don't think I did. I just wasn't… here. It was like I was so far away from myself that I couldn't even move sometimes. All I thought about while they were 'studying' me was how much I wanted you with me, how much I wished I could have you there so I wouldn't have to go through it all alone. And I have to tell you, Chief, I felt like shit for it."

"Aw, Jim, don't even…"

"No, let me finish. This isn't exactly easy for me, here."

Scrubbing at his hair with both hands, Jim painfully got to his feet and started pacing. 

"I felt so guilty for wanting you with me---for even contemplating you in that hell with me--that I kind of shut down, emotionally. At least, I think that's what happened."

"Jim, I know why they took you. They want you to track down a… man. Simon Molinar." 

"So they tell me."

"Do you believe it? The vampire stuff, I mean?"

"I don't know, Chief. That footage they showed of the guy trashing the lab was pretty persuasive."

"Are you going to do it?"

"What choice do I have?"

Blair was prepared for this. He sat down on the floor next to Jim and rested his head on the cold tile wall.

"You always have choices, Jim. You might not like them very much, but they're there."

"My choices are to bring this guy in, or...." Jim's gaze locked with Blair's. "Or you die." He looked away again. "Can't let that happen."

"They told me the same thing, Jim. I'm to make sure you complete the 'exercise'," he pronounced the quotes, "or they'll kill me and start over again with someone else. Did they say they'd kill you if you refused?"

Jim sighed. "If I refuse, we both die. If I fail, you die and they try to find me another ‘handler.’"

"I guess we have a choice to make, then."

It was obvious that Jim was uncomfortable with the discussion, but he seemed to pull himself together after a few seconds. 

"Before you showed up, I. . . I just wanted it to be over. For the pain to end. I *begged,*" Jim's voice broke, but he continued, "begged them to kill me." Jim wiped angrily at his eyes, and Blair leaned his head against Jim's shoulder.

"I don't want that now, Chief. I want us to get the hell out of here." He looked up at Blair before continuing in a whisper, "They'll let us go, Sandburg. They'll let us *both* go, free to live our lives, as long as we do this thing. As long as we play by their rules, don't try to run, we're on our own until the next 'exercise'." 

"What do you want to do, Jim?"

"I want to get the hell out of here, Sandburg. I want to get the hell out of here and never fucking come back. I will drag Simon *fucking* Molinar back here by his fangs and like it if it'll get you out of this shit. That's what I want."

Blair took a deep breath, eyes wide. "You do know what it means if we say yes to this? Don't you? We'd be. . ."

Jim cut him off. "We'd be alive, Sandburg." 

Blair pushed on. "We'd be subjecting this man. . . creature. . . whatever, to the same shit you had to endure. Can you do that, Jim? Because I don't think I can." 

So quietly Blair had to strain to hear it, Jim added, "Pick your battles, Chief. Right now, we don't exactly have the high ground." 

"I hear you, man. I understand. I just don't like it."

"You don't have to like it. You just have to live with it." Jim shook him slightly, one large hand on Blair's upper arm. "Live, already." 

Jim was gazing at Blair with an intensity that he'd wondered if he'd ever see again. Long fingers slipped up to caress Blair's cheek, scraping across the now formidable growth of beard. 

Blair's heart was in his throat. He'd been very, very careful to keep his libido in check, which had been pretty easy in their peep-show room with the one-way mirror practically covering the wall. 

But it didn't help that Jim was just incredible to look at, and Blair had seen it all. Every scar, every inch of flesh. They'd had no privacy these past few weeks, no way to hide even their most basic bodily functions, and despite Jim's impaired state, the forced intimacy had taken its toll on Blair's self-control. 

Blair had begun to think about Jim again, fantasizing about him when he was drifting off to sleep in his arms. But never had he allowed himself the luxury of believing that it could ever be more than a fantasy again. 

God, he hadn't so much as jerked off in weeks. He wondered, now, if Jim had - perhaps while he'd been asleep… 

God, no, Sandburg, don't go there! It's just all catching up with you, that's all. Yeah. We'll just give ol' Jim here the speech about individually releasing some sexual tension, and we're back in business. No problem, Sandburg. No need to put on a show for the Man in the Mirror. Here we go, we're just going to…

The breath Blair had drawn in preparation for speech was caught and held in a soft gasp as Jim's lips pressed gently against his own.

As quickly as it had begun, the chaste kiss ended and Jim just sat there, looking at Blair expectantly. 

"Um… Jim?" 

"Yeah, Sandburg?"

"You do realize we have an audience…" Blair hissed from between clenched teeth, nodding curtly at the one-way mirrored glass.

Jim just grinned evilly. "Joke 'em if they can't take a fuck." The grin subsided quickly, however, resettling itself as a small, honest smile. "Besides, I've been waiting to do that for awhile, now. They need us, Blair. They're not going to throw all this *work* away just because they don’t want to employ a couple of _fags_." The last word was spat out contemptuously, but Jim's expression remained mild as he sat back, waiting for Blair's reaction. 

"Well… I guess you're right." He fiddled with his bootlace. "It's a moot point now, anyway." Blair smiled halfheartedly, a watery smile that never really reached his eyes. "So, what now? Do we just sign a contract and we're released on our own recognizance, or something?"

"I don't think this is a 'contract' deal, Sandburg. Or even a verbal agreement. The door's unlocked. If we walk out and deliver Molinar on schedule, we've said yes. If we walk and Molinar remains free, we're public enemies one and one-point-five."

"Shit, Jim! The door's open?"

"It has been, Sandburg. That's been the deal all along. I walk out and work for them, and we're free. I walk out and refuse, they'll hunt me--*us*--down again and we're back to square one. Or dead."

Still shaking his head, Blair was berating himself. "I can't believe I never tried the freakin' door!" He turned to Jim. "Why the hell didn't you tell me, man?"

"I wasn't ready to walk out, just yet."

"Why the hell not? What changed your mind?"

"You, Chief. I let them take you once, and I'm gonna be damned if I don't get you the hell out of here."

"You think I'd stay here on principle and let you go it alone?" Blair was aghast.

"I'm not saying that, Sandburg. I just know how strongly you feel about this stuff and… well… I didn't want you to make your decision because of me. You need to vote your conscience on this one, you know?"

"I don't need this, Jim. I don't need to feel responsible for what's going to happen--and don't kid yourself, Jim, some ugly shit *is* going to happen--to Simon Molinar, fucking vampire or not!"

"I know, Chief, I know." Jim scrubbed a hand through his hair. "But you need to decide, Blair--what do you want to do?"

"I want to get you out of here, Jim."

"And I want to get *you* out, Chief, so it looks like the decision's made."

"But Jim, seriously--what about this Molinar... guy? I mean, how're we gonna live with ourselves? How can we sentence another living creature to the hell you've been through, or worse? Jim, man, I don't think I can…"

Jim cut Blair off by placing a finger to his lover's lips. "We can debate the ethical connotations later, Sandburg. Right now, I suggest we get the hell out of here and get on with it. We have two weeks starting the minute we leave this compound. And I don't plan to waste any of it." 

Reluctance showing plainly on his face, Blair followed Jim out into the corridor, up an elevator and, finally, into the blinding light of a noonday sun.

 

End - We All Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: They're not mine--they're Pet Fly's toys. Since they seem to have outgrown them, I'm playing in their sandbox. Hopefully they won’t set the law-dogs on me, but even if they do, they won't get much. *grin* NO money has been made. On the contrary, I'd've been much wiser to write for a couple grants instead of hacking away at this, so I guess I *lost* money in the deal.


End file.
